In the Hours Before Sunrise
Processing Wing, Bibb County Law Enforcement Center
Intersection of Telfair Street and Hardeman Avenue, Flyntsboro, Terranova
09/13/2101, 2336.65 American Time
It's time.
The clone is fully-grown and ready for him to use.
Nodding, Master Chief Hugh Hatcher of the TSID's Special Victims Unit, lies down in the bottom of the coldwire unit, medbots taping electrodes and inserting IVs in his arms, an instant before they close the top half of the clamshell unit down on him.
A few moments pass, moments which Hatcher must not show fear of either the enclosed space or the darkness, before a voice announces,“all systems optimal, initiating coldwire.“
He barely notices the multiple pricking sensations of needles pumping digatalis into his system, or the numbing cold creeping up his body to stop his heart and brain, Hatcher taking a final breath, before closing his eyes....
...opening them, examining the small hand before her eyes, flexing each and every one of the long, slender fingers attached to it, as she climbs out of the coldwire chamber opposite the one holding her original body, feeling the coolness of tiles against her bare feet, as she pads over to the full-length mirror by the dressing-room door.
Nice, she thinks to herself, feeling her big black boobies, fingering their perfectlly-chocolatey nips, examining each and every inch of her well-toned, athletic body—and she means every inch—before she pats her firm booty and begins the process of getting dressed.
First, the toy...all zeds like toys, the bigger, the better, Hatcher settling on a twelve-incher as darkly chocolate as the rest of her body, strapping the puppy on, cinching the straps tight around each muscular, black thigh.
She shivers slightly at how good those straps look round her thighs, how right that tool looks on her...God knows, her little white girlie-girl sure thought it looked right on her....
“Can't help what we are, sweetie,“ Hatcher says to her reflection in the mirror with only a little bit of a growl, as she pulls the creamy white crotchless thong on over her tool, following that with the tight, white tank top—slit up at the sides, held together with snaps—which bunches up her boobies and allows her nips to poke through, Hatcher completing the ensemble with the orange prison jumpsuit—which zips up along the sides—left just open enough at the front to show cleavage.
One final look in the mirror.
She's ready to go.
The door hums and clicks, as it opens for her, Hatcher stepping out into the hall, walking past holding cells on either side, until she reaches the next to the last one on her right.
“Open 23,“ she says, the cell door humming and clicking, before sliding into the wall, Hatcher stepping in, almost feeling sorry for the worthless piece of zed huddled in the corner with its knees tucked under its chin.
It looks up at her.
Clearly, it wants what Hatcher's about to give it.
“P-precious?“ the zed stammers.“B-baby, t-they—“
Hatcher just walks up to it, reaching under the armpits to unzip the jumpsuit all the way down, letting it fall to the floor, letting it get a damn good look at the toy it wants her to use on it, the eight-year veteran of the Special Victims Unit smiling, as she sees the zed's wide, terrified, uncomprehending stare.
This is the part Hatcher likes.
She grabs its long, blonde hair, hauling it up off the floor, slapping it across its face one, two, three times, chuckling, as she whispers:
“You actually think I can love something like you?“
Hatcher chuckles again, before calling it a stupid bitch and pulling on its hair to force its mouth open.
...the dyke crew drags her, kicking and screaming from her cell, throwing her up against the railing, Suzanne bitchslapping her , screaming “who said you can stand up, you worthless goddamn, stinking piece of poot?!” before she wrenches one of Ariel's arms behind her back, bending her over the railing, another of her girls pulling her panties down, Suzanne smacking her fist in her hand, before she shoves it up in her, shouting for her to shut the eff up, bitch, shut your effin’ cooter head, shut it, using her free hand to pull her arm even further out of her socket, as Suzanne humps her, telling her,”maybe this’ll show ya....”
Aboard the Commonwealth Forces Ship Unbroken
Landing Pad 150, Commonwealth Forces Base New Seattle, Big Sky
9/14/2101, 0442.20 Zulu
...what we’re all about, lil’ girlie, her mind says, laughing at her, what you’re all about....
Chief Warrant Officer Ariel Dixon wakes up in a cold sweat, her ragged breathing echoing off the bulkheads of the cruiser's deserted wardroom, as she tries to remember the sequence of events leading up to her waking up here.
She remembers now...the First Lieutenant had come onto the bridge, after Ariel had gotten spooked over nothing...she'd threatened to carry the twenty-four year old flight engineer over her shoulder if she didn't get to the wardroom and take a break.
She must've fallen asleep.
Reflexively, she looks down...she's still dressed, her greys rumpled from her having slept in them, her equipment belt, holding her laser pistol, laser lance, grav shield generator and toolkit, sitting on the coffee table in front of her.
You'd have liked that, a voice in her head titters, wouldn't ya, pootie-poot?
No, Ariel replies, the voice laughing at her, yes, you would've, don't lie, little poot, you know you do, all us zeds is—
“No,“ Ariel says over and over, grabbing hold of her head, trying to shake the voice loose, but it only gets that much louder, Unbroken's flight engineer getting up off the sofa, pacing till she passes by the icebox, rummaging through it for a can of pop—she doesn't care what it is, as long as it's cold and it's got caffiene—realizing she needs something loud to drown out the voice still....
....reeking of stale cigarets and cheap liquor, Khryste reaches inside her brown chinos, hitting Ariel’s exposed breasts with her belt, screaming for her to smile and shake that ass for me, bitch, shake that goddamn stinking....
...her breathing is more ragged, as she holds onto the edge of the sink at the far corner of the wardroom.
“YouTube,“ she says, desperate for any sort of noise, the workstation on the coffee table switching on, YouTube News' Glenn Beckett floating in the air, telling the worlds:
”As you all know, solid information on the true state of affairs inside the Communist State of Satellite Nations is nearly impossible to come by. The right-wing liberal media elites who control YouTube's Media Committee would naturally have you believe that the Commies live in a paradise, wanting for nothing, free to do and live as they please; however, our sources from deep inside the high command of the Commonwealth Forces tell us a far different story, as this holofootage smuggled off the Commonwealth homeworld of Earth by decent, God-fearing men fighting against incredible odds, clearly shows:“
The holofootage dissolved to scenes of ragged, dirty men huddling together against bitter cold over guttering fires, digging up food from dispose-all units, coughing their lungs up, as what were supposed to be Commonwealth Constabulary, all blonde women wearing knee-high boots and black leather catsuits, stomped and beat the crap out of them for their troubles.
”As you can plainly see for yourselves,“ Beckett’s voice said in the background,” despite the lies of the Vargas media elites and the Conspiracy who controls them, life in Commonwealth soil is a harsh struggle for existence against terrific odds. Many brave men have taken to the hills and the hinterlands of this former American penal colony staging daring attacks against their zed oppressors...many other men have taken to the skies, in whatever starships they can steal, taking on overwhelming numbers of the most efficent killing machines ever seen in the human worlds, in underarmed, ill-maintained, obsolete machines made more for the commerce of peace than for the far grimmer commerce of war in which the zeds have proven themselves entirely too expirienced.“
”Brave men,“ he added, after a pause,” you who risk everything to fight your enemies, do not think we have forgotten you or the sacrifices you make in the defense of your homes and families. Our own Bob Simon has been secretly moving about inside the Commie capital, and he has a live report on the current situation.“
The holo dissolved to a picture of the reporter in question, a still of Earth and a caption saying ”BOB SIMON, FORT GIBSON.“
”Brian,“ a tinny Oxford-accented voice was saying in the background, ”the Commies are becoming more desperate by the day. A recent raid by the Resistance in Fort Gibson against the largest of the zeds' concentration camp facilities has prompted Angelique Gault to cut off all food supplies to her captive poulation...already three food riots in Fort Gibson and another six or seven in the Tulsa Metropolitan Prison Zone have been bloodily suppressed by the Commie Forces’ dreaded Black Titan shock troops with the use of plutonium-oxide gas and various nerve agents....“
Greyhound Bus Terminal
600 Spring Street, Flyntsboro, Terranova
09/13/2101, 2345.78 AMT
“....along,“ the YouTube reporter drones on,“the use of snarling Rottweilers, held on breakaway leashes, the Titans then moving amongst the survivors like black-clad vultures, picking out the more attractive of the victims for immediate transport to the recreation centers and auction houses throughout Fort Gibson.“
“Sounds like,“ Beckett says,“you've had some harrowing expiriences, Bob.“
“Not as harrowing as it is for those who are forced to live here, with neither the means of escaping,“ Simon remarks,“nor the necessary political and social connections to secure even the most meager of—“
Damn it.
Precious Syms continues running, the pair of Gnats just entering the bus terminal ruling out any other option, the clerk at the ticket counter stroking a key on his terminal's holodisplay, the star frosh of the Pioneers' soccer team ducking through the pair of double doors connecting the terminal with the bus gates, just as a slab of monomolecular carbon snaps down into place behind them.
“There she is, frickin' nail that halfie skank!“ screams one of the veritable freakin' army of Gnats, Marines and Special Forces Command gathered round the arriving and departing buses, a HOUND closing the distance between her and it in a single leap of its four robotic legs, Precious showing off some of the skill which made her the team's star striker and the Terranova Collegiate Association student-athlete of the year by running like hell, the nineteen-year old halfie girl barely winded, her Neveleim musculature and her Haziri wing flaps allowing her to take to the air almost immediately, the thermals letting her glide thirty feet above her pursuers.
A storm of laser pulses and massdriven slugs rip past her, Precious barely succeeding in evading all of them, an ACV-137 gunship charging towards her on its vectored-plasma jets, a five-terajoule laser pulse crackling the air above her, singing some of her long, straight, black hair, burning a furrow through her uniform and her back, the resulting white wash of pain almost causing her to fall.
She has to find another place to hide, and fast, the thermals pushing her towards Second Street, Marine hoppers now joining in the pursuit, lighting the sky around her with five-hundred gigajoule laser pulses.
For the nth time since the Gnats smashed the door of her dorm room into a million pieces, Precious worries about Shannen, wonders if they got her, and if they do, what the hell's being done to her...things weren't great between them, they'd fought terribly after practice last night, and....
That had been the last time she'd seen her, God knows what they'll do to her, she's told Precious some of the crap she's been through, and Precious is reasonably sure she hadn't told—
She lands on the steps of Saint Paul's, on Cherry Street, pounding on the locked doors leading into the cathedral, her ears picking up the whine of plasma jets close to the ground, turning to see an AV-51, a trail of UV-116s following close like baby duckies behind their mama, coming up the Third Street end of Cherry.
Precious throws herself on the locked cathedral doors, beating on them even harder, screaming for someone to let her in.
Rectory, Saint Paul's Cathedral
121 Cherry Street, Flyntsboro, Terranova
09/13/2101, 2353.06 AMT
“Reverend Cheney,“ Deacon Keith Ishmael tells him,“you are aware of the Church's policy concerning asylum for zeds. The Council for—“
“Screw you,“ Reverend Robert Cheney replies, his voice a liquidy, rattling, rasp, the sixty year old American Orthodox minister walking out of the rectory, a million and one sins against his God on his mind and conscience, the old black man waiting until he is in the crisp air of a September night in the Fall Line to start coughing and wheezing, a hard glob of bloody, blue-green phelgm depositing itself on the ferrocrete for all that exertion.
The halfie girl nearly runs him down, before he even has a chance to stand back up, Cheney telling her, “come with me, child, now, before they—“
He hears bootsteps clomping up the steps leading to the cathedral proper, the sharp crack as a gravity ram breaks the sound barrier and sixty-five year old doors at the same time, part of the aging and dying preacher's mind musing on the irony of men who feel God is so much in favor of them and their government that they can defile His places with impunity.
He leads her into the rectory, Deacon Ishmael joined by Deacons Buckner Melton, Charles Dickey, and Jimmy Stumbo, the latter of the four growling,“not to put too fine a point on it, Reverend, but we hired you, and we forbid you giving shelter to any of,“ Stumbo leers at the halfie,“these.“
“Accept my resignation,“ Cheney replies,“and get out of my damn way.“
The well-dressed Haziri male growls again, before drawing a massdriver pistol from his thirty-thousand dollar tailored suit.
“You are a traitor to your Union and your God, Cheney,“ he snaps, aiming the pistol dead at Cheney. “I always knew you were.“
Cheney can't help but laugh out loud at that...it's a tossup between what's more ridiculous, being called a traitor or being threatened with death.
Bootsteps echo directly behind the deacons, Ishmael turning to face the pair of National Policemen, saying,“we have a zed in our custody, and this man is guilty of violating the Union Security A—“
His voice drains away from him, the deacon not expecting the Gnats to shove their M16s in his face, or for the blonde one of the two—a major according to his rank insignae—to bark out,“all four of you, on the effing ground, now!“
Cheney is even more surprised when the blonde one adds:
“Smitty sent us, Rev. Come with us.“
...they laugh as she lies on the dressing room floor, sobbing like a little baby, sick to her stomach, one of the other dancers kicking her ass, stomping her face down, ass up into her own vomit, then pulling her up to her knees by her hair, puke all over her face, another dancer, a black stallion, all over tats and brands, the word “Gurly Gurl” burned into the lips of her hairless poot, commenting,”nasty-ass bitch.”
“They all are,” Cathi commented, spitting on the eleven-year old girl’s breasts.
“They all are,” Cathi repeated, taking a strap-on from the table next to her, putting it on and ramming it down Khryste’s throat at the same time the black stallion gave a rebel yell, jumping on her from the rear, slapping her ass hard, screaming ,”let’s ride, pony gurl!” as she rubs up against....
Aboard the Commonwealth Forces Ship Unbroken
Landing Pad 150, Commonwealth Forces Base New Seattle, Big Sky
9/14/2101, 0501.15 Zulu
...she flinches from the memory, Lieutenant Khryste Pollard dryswallowing, as she continues pacing Fighter Squadron 214's wardroom, stopping at the pic of the originial Black Dogs, posed in front of their Corsair Mark VB warpfighters on the hangar bay of the first Nawlins.
These are the legends who made the VF 214 the most famous warpfighter squadron in human space...Will Marley, Ben Griego, Micheal Delvecchio, Daniel Rice, Julie Tallgeese, the Commonwealth's ace of aces herself, bumping some sausage smoker from the top of the all-time kill board with nearly seven hundred fifty kills to her credit before she'd become Unbroken's first skipper sixty years ago, and, from there, Commonwealth Chief of Military Operations and President almost immediately after that....
Even in dying, she was a hero, and everything a President of the Commonwealth should be, Khryste observes grimly, giving up her life without a second thought, so the people of Winterhaven could be free of Yanker bonesmokers.
The gaze of 214's current commander drifts to the holo coded Nova Regina, 2/14/2080, sitting on a sideboard just below the flatpics of the other Black Dogs which had come before Khryste.
She strokes the Play icon on the holo, the still coming to life, a woman's voice saying:
“Today, Valentine's Day, 2080, is especially important for Leftenant Jamilinne Sipe, commanding officer of the storied Warp Fighter Squadron 214, based aboard Commonwealth Forces Ship Unbroken.“
The young woman in the holo, virally-blonded hair, piercing blue eyes—glasses, believe it or not—tries hiding her stocky, five-foot, ten-inch frame behind the nose of her warpfighter, garishly embellished with an effed-up looking baby duck grasping Guy Zellner's bloodily-severed head in one hand, and an Anazazi nofohaz in the other, the woman in the background—whose voice she recognizes instantly as a(relatively) much-younger Irma DeLong—cajoling a younger Jami Sipe to “come out from behind there, Leftenant, I don't bite,“ at the same time she continues her narrative:
“While engaged against Yanker forces in the Hampton aerospace corridor just this morning, Leftenant Sipe singlehandedly dispatched a dozen cruisers, heavy cruisers, and battle cruisers, along with a substanial number of warpfighters, to surpass Julie Tallgeese's long-standing tally of enemy craft shot down. Jami has, in just three years of service to her Commonwealth, amassed a kill tally of 757 enemy machines destroyed, including a record 121 cruiser-class starships of all three types....“
Khryste pauses the playback...Ugly Duckling's still in the hangar bay—immediately below the squadron wardroom, ready room, and quarters—on the cruiser's forward middeck, her pilot now even more of a living legend in the almost two decades she's been Unbroken's skipper...it's hard for the twenty-one year old squadron commander to imagine the Old Lady wearing glasses, let alone as scared of her own shadow as Khryste herself is.
Especially where Ariel's concerned...she's been on the bridge all frickin' day, working on repairs and tweaks to the ship, while Khryste's been here, finding other reasons to stay too busy to talk to her.
She sighs, moving down the line of squadron history, past the saber which had hung in the first 214's wardroom, supposedly the one Andrew Jackson had used to lead the charge at the First Battle of Nawlins nearly three hundred years ago, the one Will Marley had used to defend himself from two of his pilots who'd chosen to switch teams, along with the sgian dubh in the glass case just below it.
The two of them had fought at this spot just before Unbroken had left Excelsior Spacedock for Big Sky a few days ago, Ariel screaming that Khryste never listened to her, Khryste screaming that Ariel never wanted to talk, both of them calling each other names Khryste, at least, wished to God she could take back.
All 'cause Khryste was feeling herself getting too close to Ariel again, prolly vice-versa, no real way of knowing for sure, since the only damn time Ariel even frickin' thinks to talk is when she's so goddamn angry and jumpy she wants to shoot someone in the face....
...Cathi grabs her hair, hauling Khryste up onto her knees, the fifty-seven year old woman the other dancers call “Mama” forcing the bottom girlie’s face into her crotch, screaming for her to “eat it, bitch, eat it frickin' raw!” as she jerks even harder on her hair, smothering her with her poot, ordering her to “stick that tongue up in there, now, lil’ girlie girl, now!” as she keeps pulling on her hair, forcing her mouth open....
...and, Khryste's so scared to even touch her, she's worse than frickin' useless to Ariel.
That, in itself, being nothing new.
Processing Wing, Bibb County Law Enforcement Center
Intersection of Telfair Street and Hardeman Avenue, Flyntsboro, Terranova
09/14/2101, 0004.18 AMT
It's whimpering in a bruised heap of naked flesh at her feet, Hatcher stomping on the back of its head, whispering in a husky, half-growling voice:
“Bitch, you bore me, all y'all bore me...what you got to offer , it ain't a damn thing but poot, just somethin' to get me off, nothin' like screwin' a— “
The cell door buzzes and clicks open, Hatcher turning to face a couple bull dykes wearing MiniPriz khakis and identical blond buzzcuts.
“What the—“ Hatcher starts to ask, the right-hand blonde buzzcut barking out,“this one's going for a little ride; her girlie's still running rou—“
“Will you shut the eff up 'bout that?!“ Hatcher snaps, adding,“I need to see your orders, before I—“
“I assure you, Master Chief,“ a squat, stocky man with a well-manicured beard says, as he appears behind the butches,“these orders come from Admiral Baraka himself. As he hasn't the time to communicate his wishes with the likes of you in person, he sent me instead.“
Micheal Smith, Adjutant-General of the Terranova National Police, then steps out in front of the butches, adding,“I trust you won't see the need to question me, concerning those orders, Master Chief.“
“No, sir,“ Hatcher reluctantly replies, letting the butches scoop the little blonde bitch up off the floor, Smith telling him to carry on, as he leaves.
Processing Wing, Bibb County Law Enforcement Center
Intersection of Telfair Street and Hardeman Avenue, Flyntsboro, Terranova
09/14/2101, 0005.46 AMT
“Move!“ Micheal Smith snaps to Lori Pollard, as the “butch“ slips behind the steering yoke of the MiniPriz HV-128 Choctaw aerodyne, the wing-in-ground effect transport lifting itself up off the ferrocrete on its thrust vectrals, bulleting into traffic at well over 1,200 miles per hour, the gee force nearly slamming Smitty into the terrified heap of a nineteen year old soccer player, as they scream down InterCounty Highway 75, headed for the base in Freeman Lang, where, assuming they haven't been found out, a pathfinder's waiting to take this one and several hundred others offworld.
The soon-to-be former Adjutant General of the National Police curses himself for the indecent haste and improvisation which has marked the past couple, three days since the massacre of three thousand unarmed protesters on the front steps of the Capitol...the whole damn organization's gone frickin' soft in the decade following Tau Ceti, caught completely by surprise by Zellner's latest fit of insanity, many of them being collected and shipped to God knows where along with those they'd been trying to save.
Too many, he bitterly recriminates himself, looking at the poor thing shrinking away from Amy Bridges—her hair and eyes returning to their normal shade of mousy brown—as she tries reassuring her.
“Crap,“ Lori shouts, Smitty seeing the squadron of AV-51 Powell main-battle tanks for himself, the horse-mounted Marines in between them stopping all ten southbound lanes of traffic.
“Stay in character,“ Smitty tells her, moving up to the front of the Choctaw, sitting down at the copilot's seat, just as Marines from the Third Shock Army appear on either side.
“Gentlemen,“ the Adjutant-General of the National Police says to them, just as Achird A, shortly followed by its more distant companion, rises over Hartley Bridge Road in the distance, tinting the sky with the colors of second sunrise.
—endit—
